


When We Find There's Life on Earth After All

by jane_with_a_j



Series: Life on Earth [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (eventually I promise), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale why are you so sad, Headaches & Migraines, M/M, Memory Loss, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Sad Aziraphale (Good Omens), What happened to Crowley?, but honestly it should be clear what's going on well before the end of chapter one anyway, debating how spoilery I want to make these tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-16 10:17:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21034646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_with_a_j/pseuds/jane_with_a_j
Summary: An angel awakens in Heaven from a six thousand year coma, the result of a head injury taken in the First War.He's missed everything.  The entire history of the Earth.  Well, except for one thing.  He hasn't missed the apocalypse, because the apocalypse, for some reason, didn't happen, and no one seems to know why - or if they do know, they won't say.He has questions.  And if the rumours are true, there's one angel who might have answers: the Principality Aziraphale.Aziraphale isn't at all what he expected.And nothing, as it turns out, is quite what it seems.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song "Life on Earth" by Dala, which doesn't really have anything to do with the story, but it's a pretty song and it mentions angels, so...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How long have I been unconscious?” he asked.
> 
> “Wee-lll,” said Gabriel.
> 
> “I assume you're about to tell me that it's been a very long time?”
> 
> “Yes,” said Gabriel. “A very long time. A little over six thousand years, in fact.”

Orael's mouth was filled with the taste of ash. He blinked, and raised one leaden arm to shield his eyes from the bright, white light that filled ... where was he, anyway? Still shielding his eyes, he propped himself up on one elbow to look around.

Infirmary. He was in an infirmary. The last thing he remembered, he had been running across a battlefield. Charging forward? Fleeing? He wasn't sure. He probed at his memories and found that they were all a bit fuzzy. He knew his name. Remembered the names of his friends. Remembered standing before an Archangel, receiving orders for a great battle to come. His head ached. He didn't remember who the Archangel was. He didn't know how the battle had ended.

“Oh, good! You're awake!” Orael turned toward the sound of the voice. His vision was blurry, as though his eyes had forgotten how to focus. All he could get was a vague impression of dove-grey cloth and violet eyes. It was enough. There weren't a lot of angels with eyes like that. Even with the holes in his memory, Orael knew who was speaking to him. “The healers informed me that you were showing signs of life, after all this time,” said the Archangel Gabriel. “Quite a miracle, even for us.” He chuckled.

Orael decided that this was as good a time as any to test out his voice. “What–” Oh, Lord. Was that what he sounded like? He cleared his throat and tried again. “What happened?”

“Well,” said Gabriel. “I'm not a healer, you understand. But I'm _told_ that you took a nasty head wound during the First War. You should have been a goner, but you didn't die. You just,” he said, sitting down on the edge of Orael's bed, “didn't wake up, either. Oh, but good news!” A hazy impression of flashing white teeth. “We won! Well, essentially. The rebels were cast out, anyway.”

Orael squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the throbbing pain that seemed to be tied to the over-bright lighting. First War? As far as he could recall, they had called it only the War. _First_ War implied that there had been, at the very least, a second. “How long have I been unconscious?” he asked.

“Wee-lll,” said Gabriel.

“I assume you're about to tell me that it's been a very long time?”

“Yes,” said Gabriel. “A very long time. A little over six thousand years, in fact.”

\--

It turned out that Orael had missed a lot. _A lot_. Like, the entire history of the Earth. The Garden, the Flood, the birth and death of the Saviour, everything that had been written in the Divine Plan. Except for one thing. As it turned out, Orael hadn't missed the apocalypse. He should have done. It had been scheduled to happen a little over four years ago, now. But it ... hadn't. Gabriel was a bit cagey as to why. Last minute change of Plans, was all he had been willing to say. There was a story there, and Orael was _very_ curious about it, but no one would say a word on the subject.

Eventually, as the strength returned to his emaciated limbs, he was permitted to leave the infirmary, for short walks initially, and then for longer. He'd be back in his own quarters soon, he was promised. As soon as they found some suitable quarters for him, anyway. No one had ever really expected him to wake up.

Once he was able to stay out longer and venture further from the infirmary, he started speaking with other angels. He didn't see anyone that he knew. He wondered what had become of his friends. Had they perished in the War, he asked Gabriel, or were they just stationed somewhere else, for now?

Some of them were stationed elsewhere, Gabriel told him, but unfortunately, several of them had died. Died, or Fallen. He rattled off a list of names, in a matter-of-fact way. Of course, Orael told himself, Gabriel and the others had had more than six thousand years to process their losses. Orael had not. Orael grieved.

Although his strength was returning, his eyes didn't recover at the same pace. Had Heaven's light always been so painfully bright? The blurred vision was improving, but the light gave him headaches. And worse than the headaches were the blackouts.

The first one came when he was speaking with an angel named Zerah, who was in the middle of a rather funny story about a hapless demon when the air around her suddenly seemed to shimmer. A moment later, he felt a stabbing pain in the back of his head. The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back on the floor, with a very frightened-looking Zerah fussing over him. Apparently he had been screaming. He didn't remember. He was bustled off to the infirmary after that, and kept there for days.

Over time, the blackouts became less frequent, but they didn't go away entirely. He hadn't been given any work to do while he was recovering, so he spent his time exploring. There wasn't much to explore, really. He didn't remember Heaven as having been so ... so stark, so sterile, before. When he got the chance, he spoke with any other angels who had time for him, asking them to fill him in on the things he had missed. (Gabriel had told him the essentials, of course, but Gabriel wasn't exactly an accomplished storyteller. And he wasn't nearly as funny as he seemed to think he was.)

The stories of Earth fascinated Orael. The First War had been fought, in part, over the role of the Earth and its mortal inhabitants in God's plans, and Orael had endless questions about how it had all turned out. The problem, it seemed, was that none of the angels in Heaven had spent very much time on Earth, and the information that they could give him was vague, and sometimes contradictory. One thing that they all agreed on was that Earth was not a pleasant place to spend any length of time. Oh, if pressed, they all had _something_ earthly that they were fond of. Zerah liked horses. Raniel liked jazz music. Stephan admitted, a bit shamefacedly, that he quite enjoyed something called chocolate. And Gabriel was strangely fond of human-made clothing. But none of them actually seemed to like the Earth itself very much, or really to know all that much about it.

There were, Stephan told him, several angels stationed on Earth long-term. They would be better able to answer his questions. Orael resolved to go down, meet with some of them, and explore the Earth, as soon as he was well enough to do so.

There was one angel, Zerah whispered one day, who could probably answer more questions than anyone else. An angel who had been on Earth since the beginning. The Principality Aziraphale. No one knew very much about him, of course, but there were rumours. Wild rumours. The one thing everyone seemed to agree on was that Gabriel seemed not to like Aziraphale very much, and made a sour face whenever the Principality's name was spoken in his presence. Still, Orael added the name to his mental list of angels he intended to visit when he was finally cleared to go to Earth.

\--

Gabriel was dead set against any visits with the Principality Aziraphale. He wouldn't say why, but it seemed to Orael that it was personal. There were other angels on Earth, Gabriel told him, who would be able to give him the grand tour, if that was what he really wanted. Was he sure it was what he really wanted? Earth was so ... earthly.

And then one day, out of the blue, Gabriel changed his mind. As always, he wouldn't say why. “You said you wanted to meet the longest-serving angel on Earth,” he said. “Well, today is your lucky day.” Orael decided not to ask too many questions, otherwise he might lose this chance.

He dressed for the occasion in white slacks and a soft silk shirt in a pale gold colour that matched his eyes. He tied his long hair back with a ribbon and conjured up a mirror to inspect his reflection. He had no idea whether he looked good or not. He thought he probably did, but what did he know about Earth fashion? He fiddled with his cuffs.

Honestly? He was nervous.

Gabriel had promised to accompany him, and watch out for him on this first outing, but Orael was less reassured by that than the Archangel presumably intended.

They rode the escalator down together, crossed the brightly-lit lobby to the big main doors, and stepped out into the world.

The world was...

...incredible.

It should have been overwhelming, stepping out from the calm sterility of Heaven into the vibrant chaos of central London, but Orael was instantly in love. The light was still a bit too bright, but the colours were glorious, the movement was thrilling, and the noise...! He'd spent time preparing for this, watching training videos and reading up on what to expect, but it hadn't prepared him for the reality of it. He spent a moment just standing there, listening, trying to place each sound. There was a bicycle bell. There a car engine. There another car engine, this one running more quietly ... better maintained, maybe? There a church bell. A mobile ringtone. A car horn. The bark of a small dog. More engines. Quite a lot of engines. And voices. So many voices. Human voices, shouting and whispering and laughing and talking over each other and so full of _life_. No wonder the Almighty had prized Her plans for this world so highly. He took a deep breath. The air... actually, the air smelled rather unpleasant. But still.

“It's a lot,” said Gabriel, “if you aren't used to it.” He frowned. “Are you sure you're okay, there, Orael?”

“Oh, yes,” said Orael. “Just, just taking it in.” A group of children ran past, shrieking in delight, yelling something about ice cream. He stepped back, and nearly bumped into a young couple walking behind him, holding hands. Two young men, one dark and the other fair, laughing together at some private joke. “Oh,” said Orael. “So sorry.” The fair-haired man smiled at him as if to say not to worry, and then the two of them walked on. Orael felt a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he watched them walk away. Then he blinked, shook his head, and tried to remember what it was he had just been thinking about.

“If you just stand here taking it in,” said Gabriel, “you could end up standing here all day. Are you coming?”

“Right,” said Orael. “Sorry.”

The walk seemed to take forever, and also no time at all. And then they arrived. It was an old-fashioned sort of shop, compared to a lot of the other storefronts they'd passed, although, given how little experience he had of Earth, Orael would not have been able to tell, if asked, what specifically, gave him that impression. He hesitated. Now that he was here, he was nervous again. He looked around. The sidewalks were crowded with people, bustling about. There was a black car parked out in front of the shop that looked different, somehow, from the other cars he'd seen driving around. It had an elegance that the other cars lacked. He looked at it for a moment, then his eyes slid off it and he looked away.

Gabriel was not interested in dithering about, watching people and admiring strange cars. He strode forward, pushed open the door to the bookshop, and walked straight in, Orael trailing in his wake.

“Good morning,” came a voice from somewhere deep within the maze of mismatched furniture and dusty books. The voice was warm, and Orael immediately felt more comfortable. The voice spoke again. “I'll be right with– oh.” And just like that, the warmth vanished. “Hello, Gabriel,” he said. “What brings you here?”

Orael peeked out from behind Gabriel and caught a glimpse of the infamous Aziraphale. He didn't look like much. A plump, fair-haired angel in a worn waistcoat, holding a leather-bound book in one hand and a white ceramic mug in the other.

Gabriel opened his mouth to say something, but Orael didn't hear it. He was dimly aware of the fact that Aziraphale had dropped his mug, but all he could see was the shimmer. And then came the thought, _oh, hell, not now_. And then the pain. And then ... nothing.

\--

He came to a short time later, to find himself lying on a worn sofa, with a crocheted blanket tucked around him. His head ached, and his throat felt raw. Oh, dear God, had he been screaming? He flung an arm over his face, mortified.

From somewhere else among the books and papers, he could hear voices, arguing in hushed tones. He could only make out some of what they were saying.

“...you knew it would...” Aziraphale's voice. Orael couldn't make out the rest of his words.

“...suspected.” Gabriel. “You can see why...”

God, his head hurt.

“...can't expect me to believe...”

“...only brought him here because you wouldn't stop...”

Orael shifted position, trying to get more comfortable, and fell right off the sofa. The sound of him hitting the floor alerted the other two angels to the fact that he was awake. Aziraphale came running in, Gabriel following a steady few paces behind.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, dropping to his knees beside Orael. “My dear boy, are you quite alright?”

“M'okay,” said Orael. “Just... just got tangled in the blanket.” He grimaced. “I had one of my screaming blackouts, didn't I?” he said.

Aziraphale nodded. “It was rather alarming,” he said. “Are you sure you're alright?”

“Headachey,” said Orael. “And my throat hurts some. And, uh, my pride.”

Aziraphale fussed over him, helping him back onto the sofa and wrapping the blanket around his narrow shoulders. Even with his blurred vision, Orael noticed that Aziraphale's wide, blue-grey eyes were really very striking. “Can I get you something?” Aziraphale asked. “I spilled my cocoa before; I thought I might make some more. Or tea, perhaps? It might help your sore throat.” He paused. “Or do you prefer coffee?” That last was said with a quiet intensity that left Orael at a complete loss as to how to respond.

“Orael is an _angel_,” Gabriel cut in. “He doesn't need any of your–”

“Gross matter?” Aziraphale interrupted. He huffed. “A hot drink is restorative, Gabriel. Maybe he doesn't need it, maybe he doesn't want it either, but the least you could do is let him answer for himself.”

Orael blinked up at the two angels who were looking down at him expectantly. One set of vivid violet eyes, one set of stormy blue-grey. He thought for a moment. His blackout had startled Aziraphale and made him spill whatever it was he had been drinking. He felt a little bit bad about that.

“You were drinking cocoa,” he said, tentatively.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale.

Orael wracked his brain, trying to remember if any of his training videos or readings had mentioned cocoa. “What... what is that?” he asked.

A pained look crossed Aziraphale's face, quickly pushed aside by a gentle smile. “It's a sort of drinking chocolate,” he said. “It's sweet.”

“Oh,” said Orael. He remembered one of the angels, Stephan, saying that he liked chocolate. “That sounds fine,” he said. “I'll try it.” He darted a glance over at Gabriel. The Archangel clearly disapproved. Well, that was too bad. Orael had come here to learn about Earth, and if that meant consuming human drinks, then he was game to give it a go.

As it turned out, he didn't like the cocoa all that much. Too sweet. But he sipped it politely as he listened to Aziraphale tell stories about the everyday humans he'd known throughout the centuries. The fair-haired angel seemed to be guarding his tongue in Gabriel's presence; Orael was quite sure that Aziraphale had some more entertaining stories that he was holding back. Suddenly, he stopped talking.

“You don't like it,” he said, “do you?”

“Don't like what?”

“The cocoa.”

Orael flushed. “Ah, no, it's fine, I'm just–”

“It's alright, my dear fellow,” said Aziraphale. “You won't hurt my feelings if you don't finish it.” He stood up. “I have a feeling you might be more of a coffee drinker,” he said.

Gabriel made a sound in the back of his throat.

Aziraphale pressed on. “I'm afraid my coffee maker stopped working some time ago,” he said, “and I haven't had reason to repair it. But there is an excellent café across the street.” He looked pointedly at Gabriel. “Perhaps we might take a walk?” he proposed. “See some of the neighbourhood?” He looked back at Orael. “Assuming you're feeling up to it,” he added.

There was nothing Orael would like more. The atmosphere in the bookshop was distinctly tense. He had been told that Gabriel didn't particularly like Aziraphale; he could see now that the feeling was very much mutual. Getting out and exploring would be much better than being cooped up with these two. And his head was feeling better already, so there was that.

“Where are we going?” he asked, as they stepped out onto the sidewalk, squinting against the bright sunlight.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again. “Let's stop at the café first,” he said, “and then we can decide.”

The café itself was an education. There were five customers queued up and waiting to place their orders when the three angels walked through the door. Gabriel folded his arms across his chest and rolled his eyes heavenward in clear irritation. Aziraphale pointedly ignored him and strolled over to inspect the display of baked goods. Orael watched the people in the café, fascinated. Two women sat in the back corner, drinking coffees and sharing a slice of cake. A young man sat at a high table, typing on a laptop. Across the room, a young woman with a sketchbook was surreptitiously drawing a picture of him. A young mother was attempting to soothe a fussy baby while her toddler happily munched on a biscuit that was almost as big as his head. A girl, barely out of her teens, sat hunched over an enormous textbook with three empty cups beside her, highlighting and scribbling in a notebook with a palpable air of anxiety. A group of older men sat in the back corner, newspapers spread out on the table in front of them, regaling each other with stories and gossip and opinions about current events. One of them looked up at Orael, blinked at him, and then looked away, brow furrowed as if in confusion.

When it was their turn at the counter, Aziraphale ordered a tea for himself, a double espresso for Orael, plus a half dozen chocolate biscuits and two croissants. He turned to look rather pointedly at Gabriel. “Are you sure I can't get you anything?” he asked, smiling sweetly.

“No. Thank you,” said Gabriel, shooting back an equally false smile.

Orael sighed. This was going to be a long day, if the two of them were going to keep acting like this.

In the end, they didn't go anywhere in particular, just walked the streets and people-watched, with Aziraphale providing a running commentary. He told Orael about specific businesses that had been in the neighbourhood for varying lengths of time, the people who had come and gone, the habits of the current residents, and the ways the area had changed over the past several centuries. Orael discovered that he quite liked the coffee drink Aziraphale had chosen for him, and he sipped it slowly, trying to make it last. It took only a minor miracle to keep it at an ideal temperature.

“I say,” said Aziraphale suddenly. “You seem to be squinting a lot. Is the light bothering your eyes?”

Orael coloured. “Uh,” he said. “Yeah. It's a side effect of my head injury. Kind of like the blackouts I guess. Eyes are sensitive. I get headaches, and things sometimes go blurry.”

“I'm sorry to hear it,” said Aziraphale. He stared at Orael for a moment. “May I make a suggestion?” he asked.

“Uh. Sure?”

Aziraphale pointed at a woman on the opposite side of the street. “Sunglasses,” he said. “Something like what that young lady is wearing. They filter the light.”

“Huh,” said Orael. It wasn't a bad idea. Humans were clever, weren't they, to think of something like that?

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and produced a pair of simple sunglasses with rounded, black frames. “Try them,” he said.

Orael put them on.

“Oh,” he said. “This is much better.” He could feel a delighted smile spreading across his face. “Thank you,” he said.

“Think nothing of it,” said Aziraphale. The smile he gave Orael was wistful. “They suit you.”

Gabriel cleared his throat. “Can we keep moving?” he asked.

They walked for an hour or so, before Gabriel declared that this had been a nice visit, but Orael had surely seen enough for one day, especially given that he was, as Gabriel put it, not a hundred percent. Orael wanted to protest that he felt fine, but in fact, his legs were starting to tire, and his headache was coming back, in spite of the sunglasses. So he acquiesced, and thanked Aziraphale for the visit and for playing tour guide.

Aziraphale took his hand and squeezed it, in an approximation of the handshake gesture that humans used in this part of the world. The eyes that locked onto his were more blue than grey in the afternoon sunlight. “It was ... very good to meet you,” he said. He blinked once, twice, three times in rapid succession, almost as if he were blinking away tears. “Please do take care of yourself,” he said. “I–”

But whatever it was he had been intending to say, he didn't say it. Just nodded, smiled politely, and then turned and strode quickly away, in what Orael, who hadn't been keeping track of where they were walking, assumed was the direction of his bookshop.

“Well,” said Gabriel, as soon as Aziraphale was out of earshot, “what do you think of our Angel of the Eastern Gate, then?”

“He seemed... enthusiastic,” said Orael, choosing his words carefully. “About the Earth, I mean. About the city, and the people.”

“Yes,” said Gabriel, eyes fixed in the direction Aziraphale had gone. “That's one way of putting it.” Then, a sudden turn, a serious stare. “You should stay away from him,” he said. “From now on. You need to be careful.”

“Careful of what?” Aziraphale was certainly a bit of an oddball, for an angel, but he hardly seemed dangerous.

“He's a bad influence,” said Gabriel darkly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so now that we all have a pretty good idea of what Orael's deal is and why we should care about him, I'm sending him off on his own for a bit. But he'll be seeing Aziraphale again soon, not to worry!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So,” he said. “Which of the rumours about him are true?”
> 
> Saranel raised an eyebrow. “Rumours?”
> 
> “Don't tell me you haven't heard them. Is it true he was banned from Heaven?”
> 
> “No idea,” said Saranel. “I doubt it, though. I heard he'd been up there fairly recently.”
> 
> “Is it true he can walk through hellfire?”
> 
> “If he can, I haven't seen him do it.”
> 
> “Is it true he singlehandedly stopped the apocalypse?”
> 
> “That's not the way he tells it.”
> 
> “Is it – wait, how does he tell it?”

For a while, Orael did as he was told. He continued his excursions on Earth, following a carefully-planned schedule that avoided England in general, London specifically, and a particular Soho bookshop most of all. After the first few visits passed uneventfully, Gabriel declared that he was far too busy to continue playing tour guide, and that the angels stationed on Earth would be taking over that role in the future. Orael couldn't really say he was sorry for it. Gabriel had exactly two human things he seemed to be knowledgeable about: men's fashion, and sports. But only very specific fashion – he was inordinately fond of grey cashmere – and only very specific sports. (He was a veritable fount of information about high-end golf courses and elite marathon runners, but that was about it.) He knew next to nothing about music, or theatre, or cars, or movies, or anything else that Orael found himself curious about. So it would be a nice change to meet some angels who, being more familiar with the Earth, would probably be more interesting.

Over the months that followed, he made visits of varying lengths to a number of places. He brought the sunglasses Aziraphale had given him everywhere he went. The angels who played host and babysitter were pleased enough to share what they had learned during their time on Earth, but most of them seemed nearly as unenthusiastic about human things as the angels up in Heaven were, and none of them seemed particularly sorry when it was time for Orael to leave.

None of the angels he met had been on Earth for anywhere near as long as Aziraphale had, of course. None of them claimed to know him, either, although a few had met him, on occasion. Orael probably shouldn't have been so curious about Aziraphale, but he found that he couldn't help it. It wasn't just the wild rumours about him, although that was part of it. It wasn't just because Aziraphale seemed to be one of the only angels who might understand Orael's interest in the Earth, although that was also part of it. The truth was that Orael had, in the space of that one visit of only a few hours, decided that he _liked_ Aziraphale, and he told himself that he wanted to know whether he was right to do so. (Though if he was honest with himself, he didn't really care about the right or wrong of it. If he had been _really_ honest with himself, he might have admitted that... but he wasn't that honest with himself, not yet.)

In the seven months since his visit to London, he'd only had two blackout episodes, one in Rome and one in Paris. He took it as a sign that his health was improving, although he still got headaches, and the light still hurt his eyes, sometimes, despite the sunglasses.

The light was definitely hurting his eyes as he climbed the steps to the front door of an attractive New York City brownstone and rang the doorbell. The angel who lived here, Saranel, had been on Earth, in one capacity or another, on and off, for about nine hundred years, making her one of the longer-serving field angels. Rumour had it that she, like Aziraphale, was considered a bit eccentric, when it came to her interest in human things. Unlike the other angels he had met, she had actually reached out to invite him to stay with her for a while.

When there was no immediate answer to the doorbell, he tried knocking. A moment later, the door opened. “Sorry, so sorry,” said the angel. “I was in the middle of ... oh.” She cocked her head to one side and squinted at him. “You must be Orael?” Her intonation turned the statement into a question.

“I ... yeah,” said Orael. “Uh. Hello.”

“I'm Saranel,” said the other angel. She stepped back to let him enter. “Come in, come in,” she said. She was staring at him fairly intently. Orael raised his eyebrows and stared back. Saranel was tall, with long, straight black hair pulled into a high ponytail, sharp cheekbones, and almond-shaped eyes that were as inhumanly silver as Orael's own eyes were gold. Unlike any of the other angels Orael had met, she was dressed from head to toe in black. If she was at all embarrassed by his scrutiny, she didn't show it. “Did you want to go upstairs and get settled?” she asked. “I set up a room for you. You can,” she made a vague gesture, “leave your things up there.” Orael hadn't brought very much with him. He'd gotten into the habit of manifesting his clothes, rather than lugging around a suitcase on his travels, and it wasn't as though angels had much use for the usual contents of a toiletry bag.

Saranel showed him the room she'd prepared for him, and left him to get settled in. Not that there was much to do. He unpacked the few small items from his bag and sat down on the bed. The bed was small, with a silver-grey satin bedspread that matched the room's sleek, monochromatic decor – white walls, black furniture, grey curtains. A grey-and-white striped armchair. A black-framed full-length mirror that caught his reflection. He looked at himself. Light tan slacks, a fitted salmon-pink t-shirt and long, loose, unruly red hair. He looked completely out of place. He flopped back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. It came over him, sometimes, this feeling of wrongness. Probably something to do with being six thousand years behind the times. Except that it wasn't that, not entirely. He was figuring out how to navigate the Earth faster than he would have expected to. The Earth felt right. The wrongness was something else. He couldn't put his finger on it.

He sat up and looked at his reflection again. After a moment, he stood. He thought for a moment about Saranel, waiting for him downstairs. With a click of his fingers, he changed his trousers from tan to black.

They looked good, he thought.

He considered. Then he reached into his bag and pulled out a black jacket that hadn't been in there a moment before. He pulled it on and smiled at himself in the mirror. Black suited him.

But it would be odd, wouldn't it, to just show up downstairs, right after arriving, in an outfit that was obviously copying his host's look? With a sigh of regret, he shrugged off the jacket and slung it over the striped chair.

He kept the black trousers.

\--

When he came downstairs, Saranel was in the kitchen, talking on her phone.

“...was right,” she was saying. “I really didn't think it was possible.”

A pause.

Then, “No, I haven't either... mhmm... well, obviously, no one knows I've... hang on.” She had noticed Orael looking at her. _Give me a sec,_ she mouthed, before turning her back to him and continuing her conversation in a lower voice. After a few hurried exchanges that Orael couldn't make out, she nodded, disconnected the phone, and came over to greet him.

“What was that all about?” he asked.

“Nothing important,” she said. “So tell me. What do you want to do first?”

\--

Orael ended up staying with Saranel for more than a month, during which time he had no more blackouts. Saranel owned a number of homes, up and down the east coast of North America, and had spent the last few hundred years rotating through them, posing as her own descendant where necessary. New York, she said, was her favourite, the city she came back to the most often. She was delighted to be able to show him around.

She showed him all of the best places to get coffee, which he liked. Miracled up a few sets of theatre tickets, which he liked. Gave him a whirlwind tour of the city's nightlife, which he liked. Some days, they stayed in, discussing history over drinks, which he liked, or watching James Bond movies, which he liked a lot. She was often on her phone, excusing herself to engage in quiet conversations out of range of any possible eavesdropping – not that Orael would dream of eavesdropping, of course.

One day, she took him for a drive up the coast in her little black Boxster convertible, which he liked very much, so that they could go out sailing, which he did not like one bit.

Back at the marina, the two of them sat on the dock, looking eastward over the Atlantic, sharing a thermos of coffee. Orael was telling her about the various places he had visited since being cleared to visit the Earth, and trying to work his way around to the line of questioning he always came to, sooner or later.

“The first place I visited,” he said, “was London. But that was just for a couple of hours.” He took a swig of his coffee. “Liked it, though.”

Saranel said nothing, just sipped her own coffee.

“Spent an awkward afternoon with Gabriel and another angel who lives in London,” Orael went on. “Aziraphale?”

Saranel looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “I heard you'd met him,” she said. She took another sip of her coffee. “Aziraphale and Gabriel,” she said. “That must have been interesting.”

“I didn't know,” said Orael, a conspiratorial tone creeping into his voice, “that it was possible for angels to dislike each other so much.”

Saranel shook her head. “As an active agent of Heaven,” she said, “I have no comment on that.”

“You know something.” Orael was interested now.

“I know a lot of things,” said Saranel.

“What happened with them?”

“I'm not at liberty to say,” said Saranel.

Orael wanted very much to find out what Saranel knew.

“You know him?”

“Who, Gabriel? Or Aziraphale?”

Orael very pointedly rolled his eyes at her. “Aziraphale, of course. Everyone knows _Gabriel_.”

“I do,” Saranel acknowledged. “We've worked together, a couple of times.” She gave Orael a sidelong look. “What did you think of him, when you met him?”

Orael took a slow sip of his coffee, to buy some time to choose his words. “You aren't the first to ask me that,” he said. “Sometimes I think there's a specific answer I'm supposed to give.”

Saranel snorted, in a fairly un-angelic fashion. “You're the one who brought him up,” she said.

Orael looked down at his half-empty cup. “So,” he said. “Which of the rumours about him are true?”

Saranel raised an eyebrow. “Rumours?”

“Don't tell me you haven't heard them. Is it true he was banned from Heaven?”

“No idea,” said Saranel. “I doubt it, though. I heard he'd been up there fairly recently.”

“Is it true he can walk through hellfire?”

“If he can, I haven't seen him do it.”

“Is it true he singlehandedly stopped the apocalypse?”

“That's not the way he tells it.”

“Is it – wait, how does he tell it?”

“You'll have to ask him yourself, next time you see him.”

Orael turned his head and frowned at the horizon. He had been told not to go back and visit Aziraphale again. Of course, he realized, that didn't mean he couldn't do it... did it? He looked back at Saranel.

“Is it true he has a demon lover?”

At that, Saranel nearly choked on her coffee.

“Oh, huh,” said Orael. “So that one's true, then?” The thought was oddly disappointing.

“I don't know,” said Saranel, between coughs. She set her coffee cup down. “Listen,” she said. “Aziraphale's alright. It's not everyone who thinks he was wrong, to want to prevent another War. But you didn't hear that from me.” She clambered to her feet. “Come on, we should get going if we want to be home by dark.”

Saranel was silent all the way back into the city. Orael tried, that day and during the days that followed, to pry out more of what she knew about Aziraphale, but she refused to say another word about any of it. Eventually, he admitted defeat. If he wanted to learn the answers to his questions, he was going to have to look elsewhere.

\--

It was two weeks after the day at the marina that Orael decided it was time to move on. He'd already stayed longer in New York than he had anywhere else on Earth, and was starting to worry about overstaying his welcome. Saranel protested, told him that he could absolutely stay longer if he wanted, but he couldn't shake the feeling that it was time to go.

“Do you know where you're going to go next?” Saranel asked.

Orael shook his head. “I usually go back Upstairs,” he said, “and wait for somebody to tell me that they've found someone to adopt me for a while.” Sometimes he'd had to wait for some time. “You never did tell me,” he said, “why you invited me here. Everybody else had to be asked to take me in.”

Saranel blinked at him. “Seemed like it might be fun,” she said, after a moment.

Orael peered at her. “Is there something you're not telling me?”

“I think we've established that there's a lot I'm not telling you,” she said. “But this _has_ been fun, hasn't it?”

“It has,” said Orael.

“I got you something,” she said, before he could ask her any more questions. She handed him a small, white gift bag. Inside, he found a sleek, no doubt very expensive mobile phone. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she shrugged. “So you can stay in touch,” she said. She drummed her fingers against her thigh. “Listen,” she said. “You don't actually need to go back Upstairs and wait for a new babysitter to turn up. You've gotten pretty good at getting around down here.” A faint smile. “Something to think about.”

\--

Orael did think about it. It took him all of two minutes to decide to skip reporting back in to Heaven. He took a taxi to the airport, where he spent some time studying the departures board, trying to decide if there was anywhere specific he'd like to visit on his own. After an hour or so, overwhelmed by the options, he rented a car and just started driving. The fact that he'd never driven a car before didn't cause him any problems at all. Nor did it cause him a problem that he didn't have a passport, or, indeed, any form of identification, when he found himself at the Canadian border. Early the next morning, when he got a text message from Saranel asking him where he'd ended up, he texted her back to let her know that he was in Montreal.

Exploring a new city alone was very different from doing so with a local guide, but it felt good not to have to tell anyone where he was going or what he was doing. After a few days, he found himself once again considering his options. Go back and check in with Heaven, or continue travelling?

He staked out a table at a little hole-in-the-wall diner with an atlas (that he'd had no trouble borrowing from a public library, despite not having a library card), a cup of coffee (a very good Italian espresso, and wouldn't Gabriel disapprove of his having developed a taste for that?), and a slice of sugar pie (that he should have known would be too sweet for his taste, but it was a local favourite, and ... _you know who would probably like this_, his mind whispered, _Aziraphale would probably like this_). He thumbed through the atlas, considering places he might go. Spain, maybe. Barbados. Croatia. Argentina. Singapore.

England?

He did wish he could have seen more of London on that first visit, before Gabriel had whisked him away, back to Heaven.

He could go back, if he wanted to. Gabriel didn't have to know. And besides, London was a big enough city that he could just ... avoid Soho. Simple enough.

Decision made, he snapped the atlas shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm definitely one of those people who is convinced that Aziraphale and Crowley weren't the only angel and demon who were glad when the world didn't end, and that they started building up a network of allies in the aftermath of the non-pocalypse. Saranel, a Principality who likes fast cars, loud movies, and black clothes, and just generally has more in common with Crowley than with Aziraphale, is a holdover from a fic idea exploring that concept that never quite came together.
> 
> I like her, but I know we'd all rather get back to reading about Aziraphale! More Aziraphale next chapter, and in all future chapters, I promise!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He could walk away. Simple enough.
> 
> But then again...
> 
> Before he had the chance to rethink it, he strolled over to where the other angel was sitting, and dropped down on the bench beside him.
> 
> “Hullo, Aziraphale,” he said.

There was something about London. Maybe it was just that it had been the first place on Earth he'd visited, but he felt like he belonged here. He spent a few weeks checking in and out of various hotels in various parts of town, getting a feel for the different areas of the city.

It would probably be wrong of him to rent a flat and settle down here for a while. Gabriel would definitely disapprove, he told himself as he scanned the online real estate listings on his (very expensive, he'd checked) mobile phone.

He jotted down a few notes on a scrap of paper. There was no harm in looking. And anyway, it wasn't as though he'd actually been _ordered_ to stay out of London. He'd been _advised_ to stay away from Aziraphale. Big difference.

It was a coincidence that the flat he was considering right now was in Mayfair, which happened to be more or less right next door to Soho. He was just looking. No guarantee he'd like the place anyway, and even if he did, it wasn't like he'd be moving in across the street from the bookshop or anything.

\--

He did like the place. It wasn't perfect, but it only took a few carefully-chosen miracles, as well as a complete set of new furniture, to make it feel like a place he could feel at home. (The furniture was very modern and chic and would have cost him a pretty penny, if he'd been the sort of being who had to worry about money. He had a vague sense that there was something a bit un-angelic about having developed such expensive taste, but then he remembered Gabriel's clothes.)

Once he was settled in, he started taking long walks around the neighbourhood. Every now and again, someone would do a double-take as he walked by, almost as if they thought they might recognize him. But then their eyes would slide off him like ... like something that slides off of something else, he was sure there was an expression people used for that; it seemed vaguely odd that he couldn't recall it. Anyway, they couldn't possibly know him; he was new to the area. He liked exploring. After a few days, he started venturing farther afield with a little help from the bus network.

One particular Tuesday morning, he rounded a corner and saw a swath of green ahead of him. A park, and rather a nice one, from the look of it. He checked his phone. St. James's Park.

The park was pleasant. There were trees, and grass, and children running about, and an ice-cream seller, and ducks. There were also quite a lot of people sitting on benches, talking to each other without actually looking at each other. Orael, whose taste for spy movies had only grown since his trip to New York, concluded that they must all be secret agents conducting clandestine business, and if they weren't, he was just going to imagine that they were.

He sauntered across the grass, in the general direction of the duck pond, when ... oh. Hah. Whoops.

Not his fault. It wasn't as though he'd come here _looking_ for Aziraphale. If he'd wanted to find the other angel, he'd have gone to the bookshop. But there he was, sitting on a bench with a book in his hands, his dandelion-fluff hair positively glowing in the sunlight. The book was open in his lap, but he wasn't reading it. Instead, he was watching the people feeding the ducks, looking very pensive and more than a little sad. He hadn't seen Orael yet.

He could walk away. Simple enough.

But then again...

Before he had the chance to rethink it, he strolled over to where the other angel was sitting, and dropped down on the bench beside him.

“Hullo, Aziraphale,” he said.

Aziraphale nearly jumped out of his skin. The book flew out of his lap and landed on the ground in front of him.

“Sorry,” said Orael. “Didn't mean to startle you.” He leaned forward and picked up the book.

Aziraphale said nothing, just stared at him. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Like a fish. Orael found himself grinning at the other angel. “You alright there?” he asked.

“I – yes. Sorry. Terribly rude of me.” Aziraphale was clearly flustered. “Why – what are you doing here?”

Orael shrugged. “Didn't get a chance to see much of London, when I was here last,” he said. “Decided to give it another go.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “You... you look different.”

Orael looked down at himself. “Yeah,” he said. “You know Saranel? Lives in New York?” Aziraphale nodded. “She put me up for a bit,” Orael went on. “Never seen an angel dressed all in black before. And I thought, I bet I could pull off that look. So I did some shopping.” He gestured to his clothing – black boots, black skinny jeans, and an open-collared black silk shirt – with a little flourish. “If anything,” he said, “I think it looks better on me.”

Aziraphale made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

Orael's eyebrows went up. “You don't like it?”

“What? No,” said Aziraphale, clearly not finished being flustered. “It – you look very nice, my dear. Quite striking.”

“Not terribly angelic, I suppose,” said Orael. He was trying not to enjoy watching the flush creeping into Aziraphale's cheeks. (He wasn't trying very hard, though.) “I kept the sunglasses,” he said. “See? You were right, they've been a big help. And they _do_ complement my new aesthetic.”

“I'm glad you like them,” said Aziraphale. “I ... I did notice that you had them on.”

“Listen,” Orael said. “I've rented a flat, not too far from here. Would you maybe want to, I dunno, go for a coffee with me sometime? It'd be nice to have another angel to talk to.”

Aziraphale's eyes seemed to light up, for just a moment, but then the moment passed. He smiled wanly. “Are you sure that's a good idea?” he asked. “I have no doubt that Gabriel will have told you to keep away from me.”

_To hell with Gabriel,_ came the thought, so strongly that for a moment he thought he had said it out loud.

“Gabriel's not here,” he said instead.

Aziraphale sat silently for a long moment, looking at Orael's ear, his shoulder, his chin, everywhere but his eyes. Orael noticed his hands, clenching and unclenching against his thighs. Then, abruptly, Aziraphale seemed to relax. “I'm free tonight,” he said. “If it's not too short notice?”

\--

They met at the café across from the bookshop. They didn't stay, but headed over to the bookshop, by some unspoken agreement, and settled themselves in the back room. Aziraphale had purchased an entire box of pastries, in addition to his fancy, frothy cocoa drink. Orael stuck with espresso. They talked about nothing in particular – Aziraphale had managed to schedule a meeting in a few days' time with someone who was selling some rare first-edition something-or-other, while Orael had finally managed to work his way through the entire catalogue of Bond movies, up to the Daniel Craig years, and had Opinions. Opinions with a capital O.

When the coffee ran out, Aziraphale disappeared downstairs, returning moments later with a bottle of wine in each hand. Orael didn't know very much about wine, but this wine, he declared, after taking a few long swigs from the glass he'd been handed, this wine was the best wine he'd ever tasted.

“It is a rather good vintage,” Aziraphale acknowledged, giving his glass a swirl.

“Yes, very good,” said Orael. “And plus. And _also_.” He took another swig. “I think it's true, what they say about wine.”

“They say a lot of things about wine,” said Aziraphale. “Which do you mean?”

“That any wine is improved when paired with good company,” said Orael.

Aziraphale smiled at him, but it was a strangely sad smile. “Indeed it is, dear boy,” he said. “Indeed it is.”

“So,” said Orael. “Tell me about the car parked out front. It was there the last time I was here, in the exact same spot I think.”

“The Bentley,” said Aziraphale. “She's rather lovely, isn't she?” His smile faded. “She belongs to a ... a dear friend of mine. I suppose you could say that I'm ... keeping an eye on her, until he comes back.” His lower lip quivered, and he looked down at the glass in his hands.

Ohhhkay. The beautiful car, or more probably, the beautiful car's owner, was obviously a sore spot. He thought about the rumours that Aziraphale had a demon lover. It did look like the kind of car a demon might drive. Time to change the subject.

“I'm thinking of getting a car myself,” said Orael.

Aziraphale raised his eyes to look at Orael again. “Do you know how to drive?” he asked.

“Sure,” said Orael. “I rented a car in America. It wasn't so hard to get the hang of it.”

“You just rented a car and drove...”

“...to Canada,” said Orael.

“You rented a car and drove across an international border, alone, I presume, with no driver's licence and no experience operating a motor vehicle?”

Orael tried not to smile. “You don't have to sound so scandalized,” he said. “Like I said, it wasn't hard.”

Aziraphale stared at him for several seconds, and then, out of nowhere, started to laugh. “I'm sorry,” he said, stifling a giggle, “I just... you're still... you're so...” he shook his head. Orael was glad to hear him laugh – he had a wonderful laugh – but he didn't think he was imagining the hint of sorrow that was still there, in his voice. Aziraphale took a deep breath, looked at Orael, and started laughing again. This time, Orael couldn't help it. He started laughing too, although he didn't have the faintest idea what was so bloody funny.

And then it happened again.

Orael had enough warning to set down his glass, and grip the arms of his chair, and then the pain rushed in, and then nothing.

\--

When he came back to himself, he was on the sofa again, covered in that same crocheted blanket that he remembered from the last time. Only this time, Aziraphale was there beside him, holding his hand.

Wait, holding his hand?

Yup, Orael's right hand was definitely being held. The other angel was sitting on the floor beside the sofa, Orael's hand clasped in both of his, eyes downcast. He didn't notice, at first, that Orael was awake. For a moment, Orael was tempted to pretend he was still unconscious. It was kind of nice, having his hand held like that.

Instead, he shut his eyes and let a groan escape his lips. It wasn't really a fake groan; he actually was in more than a little pain. Realizing he was awake, Aziraphale dropped his hand like it had scalded him.

“My dear,” said Aziraphale. “I am so very sorry.”

“Nnggh,” said Orael, half-opening his eyes. “Nothing to be sorry for. 'm the one who should be apologizing.”

“You should do no such thing,” said Aziraphale. “It was my...”

Orael propped himself up on his elbows and peered at the blond angel. “Your what?” he asked.

Aziraphale stared back at him for a moment, then let out a long, trembling sigh. “My fault,” he said.

“What? It isn't–”

“Oh, but it is,” said Aziraphale. He couldn't seem to make eye contact with Orael. “It is my fault. I shouldn't have brought you back here.”

Orael opened his mouth to tell Aziraphale he was being ridiculous, but the other angel shushed him. “Please,” he said. “Don't ask me to explain it any further.”

They looked at each other in silence for what felt like hours, but was probably only a minute or so.

“Uh,” said Orael. “So should I, um. Go?” He stood up, and immediately dropped back down. This particular blackout had been a real doozy, and his legs were weak.

“Oh, don't be absurd,” said Aziraphale. “You're welcome to stay until you feel well again. Perhaps you'd like to get some sleep?”

“Angels don't sleep,” said Orael.

“You mean you haven't slept, all this time you've been on Earth?” Aziraphale seemed surprised.

“Well, no,” said Orael. “Is that even something I can do?”

“Of course you can,” said Aziraphale. “For the same reason you can eat. When one is issued a body, it comes with all of the, all of the ... usual functions.”

“Oh,” said Orael. He could feel himself blushing as he realized that that probably explained something else he'd been wondering about all day. “So, how do I...?”

“It's difficult to explain,” said Aziraphale. “It took me some time to figure it out, myself. Of course, I had someone to... um.” He leaned back a little. “Just ... lie back, get as comfortable as you can, and close your eyes.”

Orael did so.

“Now what?” he said, after a moment.

“Now you just ... relax, I suppose,” said Aziraphale. “Try not to think about anything specific. Focus on the feeling of being at rest.”

“And then what happens?”

“Then either you fall asleep, or if you don't, at least you're enjoying the feeling of being at rest,” said Aziraphale. He sighed. “I'm sorry, I don't know how to explain it any better than that,” he said. “I never really expected to have to coach someone through it, least of all... well. Just. I'll leave you be and you can just, ah, rest.”

“Right,” said Orael. He opened his eyes, just a crack, and watched as Aziraphale stood and left the room. “Night,” he said, to the other angel's retreating back.

Aziraphale paused. “Good night, my dear,” he said.

Orael didn't sleep a wink that night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you inviting me to go play tourist with you?” Orael asked.
> 
> “Well,” said Aziraphale, “as a matter of fact, I am. If... if you'd like that?”
> 
> Orael could feel a goofy grin spreading across his face. “I would,” he said. “I'd like that a lot.”

It rained the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. For the first two days, Orael stayed in, watching television, tending to the houseplants he'd picked up on impulse the week before, and experimenting with ways to style his hair. He thought about calling Aziraphale. Probably shouldn't. But then again, he'd already ignored Gabriel's advice and spent a whole night in the bookshop. In for a penny, in for a pound, wasn't that the expression? (Humans had so many useful figures of speech; he had trouble keeping track of them all.)

Finally, early Friday morning, he picked up his phone and made the call. Aziraphale sounded pleased to hear from him, but also ... wary. Orael proposed that he stop by the bookshop, an idea that Aziraphale shot down, rather abruptly. But, he said, after a moment, there was a very good tapas place that had just opened a few months ago, perhaps they could meet there for lunch?

The food was excellent. Even Orael, who had come to realize that he didn't particularly enjoy eating, had to acknowledge how good it was. Even better than the food itself was seeing how much Aziraphale was enjoying his meal. The lingering sadness that seemed to surround him disappeared as he sampled bite-sized meats and seafoods and potato dishes and pickled vegetables and assorted other delicacies. “Mmm,” he said, as he popped a smooth, round olive into his mouth. His eyelids fluttered as he chewed and swallowed. “Mmm,” he said again. He picked up his napkin and dabbed at his lips. “Scrumptious,” he said. Orael realized he was staring, and quickly turned his attention to his wine, a robust Spanish red. When he looked up, Aziraphale was looking at him, with a definite twinkle in his eye.

“What?” Orael asked.

“Nothing,” said Aziraphale.

They finished their meal, and as Aziraphale paid the bill, Orael found himself staring out the window at the rain.

“I suppose you have to get back to your shop,” he said.

“I probably _should_,” said Aziraphale. “But then again, I've never been one for predictable opening hours.”

“I... could come with you,” Orael said, annoyed at the hopeful note in his own voice.

Aziraphale froze.

“Or not,” said Orael quickly, certain that his face had gone as red as his hair. “I've imposed on your time enough, I think. Thank you for lunch, though, it–”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Oh, no. My dear boy, I didn't mean to, that is. I. Um.” He drummed his fingers against the table. “Have you had a chance to visit any of the museums or galleries, since you've come back here? There are quite a few good ones. It's raining, so they might be a little more crowded than usual, but it's a weekday, so...”

“Are you inviting me to go play tourist with you?” Orael asked.

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “as a matter of fact, I am. If... if you'd like that?”

Orael could feel a goofy grin spreading across his face. “I would,” he said. “I'd like that a lot.”

\--

They went to the National Gallery. The next day, they visited the Royal Academy of Arts, and a few days after that, they found a pop-up gallery selling works created by patients in a local art therapy program. (Orael was drawn to one painting in particular, a landscape depicting a lush garden in rich, vibrant greens, with an apple tree in the foreground. He decided to buy it. He paid well over the asking price for it, because, hey, he could afford it, and it was for a good cause.)

Over the days and weeks that followed, they visited the Natural History Museum (where they spent some time debating whether the Almighty's joke with the dinosaur bones was actually funny or not), the British Library (which Orael found a bit dull, but Aziraphale's unalloyed delight at the collections of rare manuscripts more than made up for it), and the National Portrait Gallery (where Aziraphale had plenty to say about which portraits were actually good likenesses and which were, sadly, not).

They didn't always go to museums. When the weather was nice, they visited parks and gardens and open-air markets. They went to restaurants and bars. One particularly memorable day, Aziraphale turned up with a pair of tickets to see a production of _Twelfth Night_ at the Globe. If Orael had enjoyed exploring London alone, exploring the city with Aziraphale was a thousand times better. And if Aziraphale still had a tendency to look sad or worried when he thought Orael wasn't looking, Orael pretended not to notice.

It was fortunate, he would think later, that Aziraphale had been with him at the British Museum, when he'd had another of his blackouts, right there in the crowded café. Aziraphale was able, with the help of a few quick miracles, to prevent any of the humans from noticing the screaming angel in their midst. It wasn't Orael's first blackout in public since he'd been back in London. He'd also had one in the park one night, when the two of them had been out for a late walk under the stars. There hadn't been a lot of people around to witness it, then, but even so, Aziraphale had spent a few miracles to keep anyone from hearing his screams.

One thing that they never did, in all the time they spent together, was go back to the bookshop. Orael had tried hinting and angling for an invitation, but Aziraphale did a very convincing impression of an angel completely oblivious to hints. Whenever Orael came right out and suggested it, Aziraphale always had a flimsy excuse.

“Why don't you want me to come back to the bookshop again?” Orael finally asked one day, over coffee at a little Italian bakeshop that they were both rather fond of.

Aziraphale didn't protest, didn't dissemble, just looked at him, rather sadly, over the rim of his teacup. He set the cup down and sighed. “It's not something I can easily explain,” he said.

“Try me,” said Orael.

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I ... I worry about you,” he said.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You were travelling for almost a year, before you came back here, yes?”

“Yes, and?”

“In all that time, you had, what was it, two of those blackouts?”

“One in Paris, and one in Rome, yes.”

“You've been back in London for only a few months,” said Aziraphale. “And it's already happened three times. That I know of.”

Orael scowled. “So?”

“You've been to the bookshop only twice,” said Aziraphale. “You had an episode both times.”

“The first one was different!” said Orael. “It was my first time on Earth at all!”

“Maybe,” said Aziraphale.

“You really think that something about your bookshop triggers my blackouts,” said Orael.

Aziraphale didn't immediately answer. His lower lip quivered.

“What?” said Orael, exasperation warring with concern.

Aziraphale pressed his lips together and shook his head. “It isn't...”

“It isn't what?”

“Nothing.”

“Look,” said Orael. “Do you know something about it that I don't? Gabriel told you something, is that it?”

“No,” said Aziraphale, much too quickly.

Orael leaned back in his seat. “You're lying,” he said.

“I'm not,” said Aziraphale, again, too quickly.

“You're an open book, you know,” said Orael. “Your eyes, they don't keep secrets.”

Aziraphale said nothing. He also didn't make eye contact.

Orael leaned across the table toward him. “What are you not telling me?”

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

“Damn it, Aziraphale,” said Orael. “I have a right to know.”

“I can't,” Aziraphale whispered.

Orael wanted to pound on the table. Wanted to grab the other angel by the shoulders and shake him. Wanted to yell, to make a scene. Instead, he pushed his chair back, stood up, and walked away without another word.

He was half-hoping Aziraphale would follow him.

Aziraphale didn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pretty short chapter, as they go. But it needed to end here.
> 
> There's a lot to come out in the next one...


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know you're upset with me,” said Aziraphale. “You have a right to be.”
> 
> “I'm aware of that, thanks,” said Orael.
> 
> “I just ... I'd like to try again to explain. I'm not sure I can, but I'd like to try.”
> 
> “I'm listening.”
> 
> Silence for a moment on the other end of the line. “It would be easier in person,” said Aziraphale. “Would ... can I come over?”

Three days passed, during which time Orael sat in his flat and sulked. He felt hurt, betrayed, and very, very alone. At one point, he started yelling at a houseplant, for lack of any other convenient target for his anger.

They were keeping secrets from him. Secrets about him. Aziraphale knew something, something that _Gabriel _knew, that Orael didn't. Who else knew? And what was it they knew? He'd been told that the blackouts were related to his head injury. Were they not? And if not, what were they? He wanted to throw things. To break things. He settled for curling up on the couch with a blanket over his head and screaming.

His phone started ringing on the second day. He ignored it. Ignored it some more on the third day. On the fourth day, maybe because he was sick of hearing it ring, maybe because the solitude had just become too much, he answered.

“What?” he snapped.

“I know you're upset with me,” said Aziraphale. “You have a right to be.”

“I'm aware of that, thanks,” said Orael.

“I just ... I'd like to try again to explain. I'm not sure I can, but I'd like to try.”

“I'm listening.”

Silence for a moment on the other end of the line. “It would be easier in person,” said Aziraphale. “Would ... can I come over?”

Orael wanted to say no. But he also wanted answers. And, to tell the truth, he wanted to see Aziraphale again. Damn it. So, after a long pause that he hoped made his point, he sighed, and told Aziraphale that yes, that was fine, he could drop by whenever. He gave the other angel his address and hung up the phone without saying goodbye.

Aziraphale showed up not ten minutes later, his hair damp from the rain, a bottle of wine in one hand.

“Is this really a wine-giving occasion?” Orael asked.

“It's appropriate to bring a gift when– oh, just take it, will you? Consider it a peace offering.”

Orael accepted the bottle and stepped back to allow Aziraphale to enter. The other angel hadn't actually visited his place yet, and it was with some annoyance that Orael realized that he hoped Aziraphale liked it.

Aziraphale removed his wet shoes. He took off his coat, and looked around for a place to hang it up.

“Just toss it over that chair over there,” said Orael.

“But it's wet,” said Aziraphale.

Orael snapped his fingers. “Now it's dry,” he said.

Aziraphale pursed his lips, then walked over to the chair in question and carefully draped his coat over the back of it.

“Alright,” said Orael. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Start talking.”

“The blackouts,” said Aziraphale. “How much do you remember of what happens right before they start?”

Orael thought about it. “It's been different every time,” he said. “Usually I'm talking to someone and I just, I see a sort of shimmer in the air, and then there's a stabbing pain in the back of my head, and then...” he shrugged. “Why?”

“Do you by any chance remember what I said to you right before it happened the first time, when Gabriel was there?”

Orael shook his head. “I don't think you said anything to me,” he said. “You asked Gabriel what he wanted. And you dropped your mug. But–”

“Mm,” said Aziraphale. He fiddled with the buttons on his waistcoat. “You see, I did say something.”

“What was it?”

Aziraphale sighed. “I can't... Your blackouts. They aren't caused by any kind of physical injury. It's more of a ... psychological one.”

“You mean like a traumatic memory.”

“Something like that, yes.”

Orael frowned. He thought about the blackouts he'd had and what had led up to them. There had to be a common thread, but he couldn't see it. Of course, if his mind was editing out the actual trigger, he wouldn't see it, would he? “You know what it is,” he said. It wasn't a question. “You know what happened to me.”

“I do,” Aziraphale said.

“And if you tell me...?”

“I tried, once,” said Aziraphale. “That night in the park.”

“Ah.” Orael wanted to doubt him. Wanted to accuse him of lying. But what he'd said the other day in the café was true. Aziraphale's face was an open book. His eyes couldn't lie. He was telling the truth. Orael turned, abruptly, and stalked into the kitchen. He grabbed a pair of glasses out of the cupboard and brought them back into the living room. “Wine,” he said, grabbing the bottle Aziraphale had brought. “Turns out this is an occasion for wine after all.”

It wasn't like that first night in the back of the bookshop. Tonight they were drinking to get drunk, silently and grimly. When Aziraphale's bottle was empty, Orael snapped his fingers and three more bottles materialized.

“Listen,” said Orael, after knocking back the dregs of yet another glass. “It's not that I don't see what ... why ... not that I don't unnerstan' you not saying anything, if, if... but. But. It's not comfar... comter... not pleasant. Knowing that you know more about me than, than, than I do.”

“I don't like it either,” said Aziraphale, his speech only slightly slurred.

Orael leaned forward in his seat. “I _believe_ you,” he said. “I believe you!”

“Well, I'm glad of that, at least,” said Aziraphale. He swirled the wine around in his glass. “I'd unda... unster... un-der-stand if you didn't want to see me anymore.”

“What? No!” Orael exclaimed, a note of panic in his voice. “I don' wan' that at all!”

“Oh?” Aziraphale gave a hopeful smile, the first smile that had crossed his face since he'd arrived.

“I like you, Azraph... Zeery... Angel-whose-name-is-hard-to-say-when-'m-drunk.”

And Aziraphale laughed.

“Tell you wot,” said Orael.

“Tell me,” said Aziraphale.

“You answer something else for me, an' I'll forgive you.”

“Sounds fair,” said Aziraphale. “What do you want to know?”

Oh, that was a good question. What _did_ Orael want to know? He shut his eyes for a moment, trying not to be obvious about the fact that he was halfway sobering himself up.

He had been dying to ask Aziraphale about the rumours since that very first day when they'd run into each other in the park. _What happened between you and Gabriel? Did you really have something to do with the apocalypse being called off? Have you really been to Hell? Can you really walk through hellfire?_ And then there was the question that Orael didn't want to admit how badly he wanted an answer to. _Do you really have a demon for a lover?_ He'd been hanging around Aziraphale for weeks now, and seen no sign that he was _involved_ with anyone at all. But then, if he had a secret demon lover, he wouldn't be broadcasting that fact to any old angel who wandered into his bookshop, now would he? And there was the matter of the ring...

“Your ring,” he said.

Aziraphale looked down at his right hand, where he wore a gold pinky ring.

“No, not that one,” said Orael. “The other one.” There, on the third finger of Aziraphale's left hand, he wore a wide gold band in the shape of a stylized snake. Orael knew the significance of a ring worn on _that_ finger.

Aziraphale's hands came together. He started twisting the ring around on his finger.

“Yeah, that one,” said Orael. “Tell me about it.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Oh, dear. I did promise, didn't I? I don't know if...” He fiddled with the ring some more. He looked up, and his gaze steadied as he came to a decision. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. But I need to–” He grimaced as he sobered up.

Orael waited.

“I got this ring from ... from someone I loved very much,” said Aziraphale. “We'd known each other for such a long time. Since the beginning of the world. He was, well. He was my best friend.”

“Who was he?”

“I told you. He was my best friend. We weren't supposed to be friends at all. We were supposed to be enemies. But he... oh.” Aziraphale was staring at the ring, his voice gone soft and wistful. “You can imagine how awkward it was when I realized that I was in love with him. Almost as awkward as when I realized that he felt the same. How could we ever...?”

“Aziraphale,” said Orael. “Who was he?”

Aziraphale looked up at him. “You've heard the things they say about me, Upstairs?”

Orael nodded.

“Some of them,” said Aziraphale, “are true.”

“A demon?” said Orael.

Aziraphale nodded. “Mmhm.” His chest heaved as he drew a deep breath and let it out. “Then we found out that the end of the world was coming. And he said that we should try to stop it.” His lips twisted into a rueful smile. “A demon,” he said, “determined to save the world. He was the one who talked me into it. And he was right.” He was playing with his waistcoat buttons again, as though he needed to be doing something with his hands. “In the end,” he went on, “we didn't actually do very much. But we were there. That was enough for our respective sides to conclude that we were traitors. Which, I suppose, we were.”

Orael didn't speak. Didn't know what to think.

“When it was over,” said Aziraphale, “when all was said and done, we realized that there was no reason to keep our distance anymore. There was no reason we couldn't be together.” He ran his fingers over the ring. “He gave me this. I gave him one, too.” He looked up at Orael, then, his eyes filled with sorrow, and ... worry? What would he be worried about?

Aside from what Orael might do with the revelation that Aziraphale was a traitor who fraternized – more than fraternized! – with demons, of course. Aziraphale's eyes were roaming over his face, trying to read his reaction.

Orael supposed he should be shocked. Disgusted. Outraged. But he wasn't. Maybe it was because he'd missed most of the War, and the 6000 years since, and so had little experience with demons. Maybe it was just because he'd already decided he liked Aziraphale. Liked him a lot.

“And then what happened?” he asked, as gently as he could.

“We had four years,” Aziraphale said. “We were happy, most of the time. And then, one day, without a word of explanation ... he was gone.”

“Gone?”

“Disappeared. Without a trace.” Aziraphale's voice quavered. “I knew something had happened to him. I knew he wouldn't just leave. So I looked for him. I looked everywhere I could think of. I tried scrying for him. I sought help from a witch. I called the Antichrist himself – he's a decent lad, really. I even went to my contacts in Hell.”

“You have contacts in Hell?”

“It turned out Cr– turned out he wasn't the only demon who hadn't been looking forward to the end of the world,” said Aziraphale. “We found ourselves with a handful of unexpected allies, from both sides, once the dust had settled. But no one could find so much as a hint of what had happened to him.” He paused for a moment, lips pressed together, collecting himself. “I tried going back to my bookshop,” he said. “Waiting for a while, to see if he'd come back on his own. He always...” he swallowed thickly. “He'd always found me, you see. When I needed him.” Aziraphale's eyes were filling with tears, now. “But he didn't come. So I started looking again. I did something I'd sworn I'd never do. I went back to Heaven. Made rather a nuisance of myself, I'm afraid. But no one there was willing to help me.”

“So you still don't know–”

“Oh, I didn't say that,” said Aziraphale. “I found out eventually, where he had gone. Why he hadn't come back.”

“Why hadn't he?” asked Orael.

Aziraphale shook his head. “I'd prefer not to say,” he said. “If that's quite alright with you.”

“Okay,” said Orael, torn between feeling glad to have the information Aziraphale had shared, and feeling guilty for having opened up what was obviously still a painful wound. “Is there any chance that he...?”

Aziraphale shook his head. The tears spilled over, then.

_Good job, you idiot_, Orael told himself. _You made him cry._ Before he even knew what he was doing, Orael had gotten up from his chair and crossed the room to sit beside Aziraphale on the sofa. He pulled the other angel into a hug.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“So am I,” Aziraphale mumbled into his shoulder.

They sat like that for a while, Orael wondering vaguely where his anger had gone. Despite the fact that they were both clearly lost and miserable, Aziraphale was soft and warm, and holding him like this felt nice. Felt right, somehow. Which was a terrible thing to think, given that Aziraphale had just revealed that he was still grieving the loss of the love of his life.

He should let him go. Should put some distance between them, right now, before he said or did something he'd regret.

He stayed right where he was.

That demon better have a damn good reason for leaving and staying away, Orael thought. Orael had never been a warrior, but he could surely manage a little smiting if he needed to. _Teach you to break my angel's heart. Bastard._

But of course, Aziraphale wasn't _his_ angel, was he?

Orael was _not_ jealous of a possibly dead demon. He wasn't.

_Nghh, I am such an asshole_.

Aziraphale pulled back a bit, just enough to look up at him. His eyes glittered like the sea at sunset. The air around him seemed to shimmer.

“Oh, fuck,” said Orael. “I'm sorry, angel, I–” And then his back arched and he cried out as the pain hit him, once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait, what did he just say?
> 
> (Things get a little better in the next chapter.)
> 
> (Then they get so much worse.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His heart dropped when Gabriel strolled into his kitchen, hands in the pockets of his grey wool coat, inspecting the room like he owned the place and was second-guessing his investment. Orael didn't feel guilty about what he was doing or who he was with. But it did occur to him that Aziraphale just might get in trouble for this.
> 
> “Well,” said Gabriel. “Isn't this ... domestic.”

Orael was surrounded by warmth. Warmth and softness and the smell of wine and cologne and old books. He lay very still, taking stock of his surroundings. No crocheted blanket this time, no cold, hard floor, no throw pillow tucked under his head. There were strong arms holding him, a gentle hand stroking his hair. He kept his eyes closed, afraid that if he gave any sign he was awake, he'd scare Aziraphale away. It took him a moment to realize that the sound he was hearing was the other angel's voice.

“...a tremendous fool, always was. I'm so sorry, my dearest. I should never have ... I knew what would happen. Selfish of me.” His breath hitched. “But you're here, and that has to mean something. I just wish I knew...” he trailed off. And then, he pressed a kiss to the top of Orael's head.

Oh.

Oh, what was that now?

In spite of himself, Orael felt himself tense. He opened his eyes. Aziraphale didn't let go, but he stopped stroking Orael's hair. Orael shifted, raised himself up a bit, and found himself staring right into Aziraphale's eyes. It was entirely too intimate a position. It would take no effort at all to close the distance and steal a kiss, a proper kiss, from those soft pink lips.

Aziraphale swallowed. “I'm sorry,” he said. “That one was definitely my fault.”

Orael blinked. “What one?”

“The blackout,” said Aziraphale.

“Oh,” said Orael. Right. Mind elsewhere. Somewhere dangerous. “Was it? I don't understand.”

“I know,” said Aziraphale, his voice breaking.

“Angel,” said Orael. He reached out and laid a hand on Aziraphale's cheek. “Angel, don't cry.”

Aziraphale flinched away from him. “Do you hear what you're saying?” he asked.

“Tell me what you want me to do,” said Orael.

“I don't _know_,” said Aziraphale, wretchedly. “I don't want to hurt you.”

“You won't,” said Orael.

“I already have.” His voice was very small.

Orael tried on a bit of bravado. “Nothing I can't handle,” he said. “Look, I'm fine now.”

“Can you stand?” aked Aziraphale.

“'Course I can,” said Orael, “I just don't–” He broke off as he realized what he had been about to say. “I just don't want to,” he finished.

Aziraphale's eyebrows went up.

“'s a very comfortable sofa,” mumbled Orael, his face burning.

“It isn't, really,” said Aziraphale. He gave a small smile. “You have dreadful taste in furniture. But if you want to stay here for a bit, I don't mind.”

And so they did.

\--

Things changed a bit after that. When they went out, they always came back to Orael's place, instead of going their separate ways. When they were there, they sat together, on the sofa, instead of across from each other in two separate chairs. Sometimes a hand would rest on an arm, or an arm would be thrown around a shoulder, or a shoulder would provide a comfortable resting place for a head. They didn't talk about it. Orael was afraid of breaking whatever it was that was there between them. Aziraphale seemed, quite simply, to be afraid of breaking Orael.

They still didn't go back to the bookshop.

It didn't help that he still had the occasional blackout. He could never remember, afterwards, exactly what the trigger had been. A part of him wondered if he should go back to Heaven and consult with the healers. But Aziraphale seemed confident that whatever was causing it, it wasn't a sign that his health was deteriorating, and Orael trusted that he was telling the truth. Not that Aziraphale took the blackouts lightly. He didn't like seeing Orael in pain. Orael, for his part, was starting to think that if they were the price he needed to pay for this life he was settling into, he'd pay it gladly. He just wished they didn't upset Aziraphale so much.

Overall, it wasn't a bad way to live. He sent the occasional vague check-in note Upstairs, conveniently failing to mention exactly where he was and who he was with. Heaven, it seemed, had forgotten about him, and he was fine with that.

But Heaven hadn't forgotten about him, and when they came for him, it was Gabriel himself who showed up in his flat.

It had been a nice morning, so far. Orael had been learning to cook, and was trying his hand at brunch. French toast with strawberries, scrambled eggs, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and coffee from the fancy new espresso maker Aziraphale had given him. (The coffee was for Orael. The rest was for Aziraphale. Orael still wasn't much of an eater.) Aziraphale was sitting across the counter from him, working on a crossword puzzle. Orael was just about to ask if Aziraphale wanted him to put on the kettle for tea when he heard the front door open. Which couldn't be right. He was sure it had been locked.

His heart dropped when Gabriel strolled into his kitchen, hands in the pockets of his grey wool coat, inspecting the room like he owned the place and was second-guessing his investment. Orael didn't feel guilty about what he was doing or who he was with. But it did occur to him that Aziraphale just might get in trouble for this.

“Well,” said Gabriel. “Isn't this ... domestic.”

Aziraphale got up from his seat and walked around the counter to stand beside Orael. “Gabriel,” he said, his voice full of ice.

Gabriel spared a quick, disdainful glance for Aziraphale before turning his attention on Orael. “You dropped off our radar after New York,” he said. “We've been looking for you.”

“You found me,” said Orael. He met Gabriel's gaze for a long moment, only looking away when it was time to turn the French toast.

“You didn't check in,” said Gabriel.

“Sure I did,” said Orael. “Just didn't feel any particular need to specify exactly where I was.”

“We were trying to protect you,” said Gabriel. “Keep you safe.”

“Safe from what?” asked Orael. He turned to Aziraphale, who was still staring grimly at Gabriel. “Aziraphale, can you pass me the powdered sugar? The French toast is just about ready.”

“Safe from what? From _this_, obviously,” said Gabriel. “Look at yourself.”

Orael widened his eyes and gave himself an exaggerated once-over. “Is it the apron?” he asked.

“It's ... it's _all _of this,” Gabriel sputtered. “You're an angel, for Heaven's sake! You were given a second chance, and–”

“Oh, _for Heaven's sake_, Gabriel,” said Aziraphale. “Give it up.”

“Be quiet, Aziraphale,” said Gabriel.

“Oi!” said Orael. “You can't just talk to him like that!”

“Of course he can,” said Aziraphale. “He's the Archangel Fucking Gabriel, after all.”

Orael gawped at Aziraphale. He'd never heard him use that kind of language. Something pinged in his head.

“He can say what he likes,” Aziraphale went on. “But it doesn't change anything. Does it, Gabriel?” He laid a hand on Orael's arm. “You tried, you really did. But he found me. He always finds me.”

“You're making this personal, Aziraphale,” said Gabriel.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “I see. You've convinced yourself that you did all of this for ... what? For his own good? For mine? For some greater good?”

“By definition,” Gabriel began–

“Don't,” said Aziraphale. He suddenly sounded very tired. “Just don't. We both know what this was. It was spite, pure and simple, and honestly, it's beneath you.”

Orael was only half listening. _The Archangel Fucking Gabriel_. He had heard that before, those exact words. Somewhere. _Don't talk to me about the greater good, sunshine. I'm the Archangel Fucking Gabriel._ But when would he have...

Another ping. He was tied to a chair. Gabriel was looming over him. _I bet you didn't see this one coming._ But he _had _seen it coming. _It_ being hellfire. A pillar of hellfire, and Gabriel, ordering him to step into it. A summary execution. But the hellfire couldn't hurt him because... because...

And there was the shimmer, glinting around Gabriel's head like an actual halo. Orael braced himself. The pain was coming. But this time would be different. This time, it would have to be different. Because this time, he knew something he hadn't known before.

Gabriel had tried to kill Aziraphale.

The pain, when it came, started like an ice-cold blade in the back of his head. His mind had retreated from it, before, every single time. Thought and memory had fled from the pain. Had surrendered to it. But not this time.

Gabriel had tried to kill Aziraphale.

He had to hold on to that thought, to that memory. Aziraphale wasn't safe. He had to remember, had to keep Aziraphale safe.

The pain spread, like icy fingers burrowing deep into his brain, like liquid fire cascading down his spine, burning him from the inside with heat and cold at the same time.

All he had to do was forget, and the pain would stop. But he couldn't forget. Not this time.

Gabriel had tried to kill Aziraphale.

He realized that he was on his knees, clutching his head. Screaming. Aziraphale was there, beside him. He threw his head back and forced his eyes open. Forced himself to stop screaming. His breathing was harsh and ragged. He grabbed for Aziraphale's hand and squeezed.

Gabriel was looking down at them, violet eyes impassive. “Orael,” he said.

And there was another thought. There was another memory.

“Not... my name,” said Orael.

“I'm sorry?” said Gabriel.

“You... you heard me. That's not. My _name._” He rocked back and forth, keening softly. “Not my name,” he repeated. “Angel,” he said. “Angel, what's my name?” There were new thoughts now, new memories. He didn't know what they meant, and they _hurt_, but he held on to them. “Angel,” he moaned. “Please.”

Aziraphale squeezed his hand back. His voice, when he spoke, was very soft. “Your name is Crowley,” he said.

“Crowley,” he repeated. Yes, he thought. Yes, he liked the sound of that. It sounded familiar. It sounded right. The name brought more memories flooding back. More memories, and more pain.

“It's a name you chose for yourself,” said Aziraphale. He had both hands wrapped around Orael's – _Crowley's_ – hand now. “At some point, you decided to embrace human naming conventions. Started calling yourself Anthony Crowley. Anthony _J._ Crowley.”

“Huh,” said Crowley. He gritted his teeth as he tried, and failed, to hold in a tortured groan. “What ... what does the J stand for?”

“Don't know,” said Aziraphale. “I think it's just a J.”

At that, Crowley barked out a laugh that turned into a whimper. “More,” he said his voice raw and rough. “Tell me more. Tell me who I am.”

“Oh, my dear boy,” said Aziraphale. “You're my best friend. You're the one who always comes for me. You're wily, and clever, and charming, and so much kinder than you'll ever admit. You're–”

“A demon.” The pieces were coming together now, and the picture was starting to make sense.

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “Not at the moment, but–”

“The one everyone Upstairs has been gossiping about. _Your_ demon.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “Mine. And I'm yours. Always.”

Crowley screamed.

“Angel,” he cried. “Angel, I don't ... I don't want ... _hnnnngh ..._” It _hurt._ It hurt so badly. All he had to do was let go, and the pain would stop. “I don't want to _forget_,” he gritted out.

“I don't know what to do,” said Aziraphale, his voice high and tight.

“Tell me more,” said Crowley. “Keep talking. Tell me ... _aaaaagh_ ... tell me ...”

“We met on the wall of Eden,” said Aziraphale. “The first humans had just been cast out, and you just slithered up to me and started making conversation, as if that were a perfectly normal thing for a demon to do. I didn't know what to make of you.” He gripped Crowley's hand tighter. “You own five dozen pairs of very expensive designer sunglasses,” he went on. “You break them at an alarming rate, but whenever you do, you just miracle up a new pair. And when you tire of a particular style, you miracle them into a new style. You take me out for meals, and I pretend not to notice that you barely eat anything, that you mostly just sit there drinking wine and watching _me_ eat. Oh! In 1941, I got myself into quite a pickle with some double-crossing Nazi spies, and you showed up, looking terribly dapper, I might add, and not only did you save me from imminent discorporation, but you saved my books, because you knew how much I loved them. That was the moment I knew how much I loved _you_.”

Aziraphale kept talking. There was no logic or order to what he was saying, just stories and impressions plucked from random points in their lives together.

Crowley was beginning to realize just how hard his mind had been working to protect him from this. Six thousand years is a long time to make memories, and every little thing he'd seen and done on Earth could have, should have, reminded him of something. Now the memories were coming back, and just like Aziraphale's stories, they were out of order and out of context. But through the confusion and the haze of pain, one thing was very clear. All of his best memories, the most powerful ones, included Aziraphale.

Aziraphale standing in the ruins of a bombed-out church, with a bag of books in his hand and a look of wonder in his eyes. Aziraphale in a Roman inn, smiling at him like a sunbeam. Aziraphale in a dark dungeon, dressed in satin and lace, declaring himself _very grateful_ for a rescue. Aziraphale reaching across a table to steal a bite of dessert. Aziraphale laughing on a park bench. Aziraphale raising a glass to toast to ... well, to something.

Aziraphale kissing him in the back room of his bookshop.

Aziraphale sliding a ring onto his finger.

Aziraphale raising a wing to shelter him from the rain at the beginning of the world.

Aziraphale holding his hand at the end of the world.

“...but of course, the road closure was entirely your doing in the first place,” Aziraphale was saying. “Speaking of which, the car! The Bentley that's parked out in front of the bookshop, that's yours. You had it from new, and you love it more than just about anything, and you drive it like an absolute maniac. And for some reason that isn't entirely clear, any time we try to put on any music in there, any kind of music at all, it sort of ... well, transforms, I suppose, into some kind of, of...”

And Crowley _had_ this memory. “Bebop?”

Aziraphale's face lit up like a sunrise. “You remember!” Then he huffed. “Of course _that's _what you remember. Teased me about that for months.”

Crowley tried to laugh, but all he could do was gasp. He didn't even think he had the strength to scream anymore. But it was worth it, oh, it was worth it. He'd endure all of this and more, just to hold on to these memories.

“Aziraphale. How long do you really think he can keep this up?”

Crowley snarled. Gabriel. He'd forgotten the Archangel was there.

“As long ... as it ... takes,” said Crowley.

Gabriel looked down at Crowley and _tsk_ed. “This isn't something you can just push through,” he said. “You aren't a demon anymore, Orael.”

“He told you,” said Aziraphale coldly. “That's not his name.”

Gabriel ignored Aziraphale. “You're an angel again. An angel's mind can't hold a demon's memories. You aren't made that way.”

“Bullssssssshit,” Crowley hissed. “When I was a demon, I remembered Heaven.”

“That's different,” said Gabriel.

“You lied before,” said Crowley. “You're lying now.”

“I'm really not,” said Gabriel. He sighed. “Look, you're clearly in a lot of pain. You—”

“Oh yes,” said Crowley, through gritted teeth. “A lot of pain. Haven't felt pain like this since...”

Wait.

Wait, that was it, that was the answer. The way out of this. Gabriel had given it to him, practically gift-wrapped.

He remembered how it went. How hard could it be, to do it again? He certainly wasn't feeling particularly holy right now.

He looked at Aziraphale. “I love you, angel,” he said.

Then he looked at Gabriel. “Bite me, you wanker.”

And then he ripped away what was left of his angelic grace, and Fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I don't write angsty fics.
> 
> My brain: Here is an idea for a fic it has a tragic separation and memory loss and horrible blackout-inducing migraines and crying Aziraphale and...
> 
> Me: What the fuck.
> 
> (Oh yeah, and I know that the whole holding-hands-at-the-end-of-the-world thing is from the book and didn't happen in the show. But it's MY story and I can mashup bits of canon if I want to!)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I'm not worried,” said Aziraphale.
> 
> “But Hell–”
> 
> “He knows his way around Hell,” said Aziraphale. “I'm. Not. Worried.”
> 
> “Aziraphale–”
> 
> “If your ascension trick couldn't keep him away, Hell won't either,” said Aziraphale. “He'll come back to me. He always does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaah, it's the last chapter! Before we get into the tying-up of all my loose ends, a big thanks to everyone who commented along the way. Having an idea of what people were getting out of the early chapters really helped me figure out how to polish up the later ones.

Falling was, of course, a mostly metaphorical term for what Crowley actually did. The first time around, there hadn't even really been a physical plane to fall through, not yet. Still, the sensation of _down_ had been there, of a plummet, a dive. That part hadn't changed.

The pain of the Fall was, arguably, worse than the pain that accompanied the memories. Not much worse, though, and unlike that other pain, this one could coexist with the knowledge of who he was and what his life had been.

He landed in a not-at-all-metaphorical pool of boiling sulphur, and oh, Satan, it hurt. As he dragged himself to the edge and pulled himself clear, he realized that his wings were out, that they were burning, stinging, dripping ... and black. He wished he had a mirror, so that he could check his eyes.

Everything ached, everything stung, everything _burned_, but this ... this was good. This spot. It was just as he remembered it. It hadn't changed.

On the rare occasions that an angel had Fallen, since the First War, those former angels had found themselves in this very spot, wracked with pain and fear, waiting far longer than was strictly necessary for someone to come and start their paperwork. The wait was part of the torment, just one of the ways Hell asserted its power. It was quite an effective bit of cruelty.

But Crowley had been here before. He knew his way around, all the secret ways through Hell. He didn't need to wait. By the time anyone came to claim him, he would be long gone.

He stretched and groaned and, with a thought, shifted into his snake form. Easier to avoid notice, down on his belly.

\--

In the end, it took him less than half an hour to make his way out of Hell, and most of that time was spent trying to find the specific set of tunnels that would lead him to the surface in a particular part of London. He'd made a secret path for himself, a few decades ago, that would lead him up just a few blocks from his flat.

It might have been a coincidence that the flat he'd rented as an angel was only two streets over from his old flat. Might have been, but probably wasn't. In either case, that was where he needed to be. Aziraphale was still there, alone with Gabriel. Gabriel, whose attempt to punish them both had just gone sideways. Gabriel, who was almost certainly going to be angry, and was more than likely to take that anger out on Aziraphale.

He ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and slipped into the flat silently, expending a little miracle to muffle the noise of the door. The smell of smoke hit him, and for a moment, he panicked. But then he heard voices. Aziraphale and Gabriel were both still here, and they both sounded calm. The flat wasn't on fire, then. No one was burning. Well, no one except for him, a little. He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the sting in the spot where his wings were tucked away.

“It should be obvious,” Gabriel was saying.

“Should it?” replied Aziraphale. His voice was steady. Confident. “Who are you trying to convince, Gabriel?”

“Well, it's not like he's better off now,” said Gabriel. “Do you really think Hell is going to let him out?”

“I certainly hope you aren't trying to make me believe that I've harmed him,” said Aziraphale. “He made a choice.”

“A choice that you–”

“His choice. Which you've already admitted was more than you gave him.”

Crowley crept closer and peered around the doorframe. Aziraphale was standing at the counter, sipping from a teacup, very pointedly not looking at the Archangel who stood beside him. A pan containing two ruined slices of French toast appeared to be the source of the smoke. Neither angel was looking in his direction.

“I'm not worried,” said Aziraphale.

“But Hell–”

“He knows his way around Hell,” said Aziraphale. “I'm. Not. Worried.”

“Aziraphale–”

“If your ascension trick couldn't keep him away, Hell won't either,” said Aziraphale. “He'll come back to me. He always does.”

“He's right, you know,” said Crowley, leaning against the doorframe in what he hoped was a suitably dramatic fashion.

Aziraphale didn't jump, didn't flinch, just looked over at him calmly. “Crowley, dearest,” he said. “I must admit, I wasn't expecting you back quite so quickly.” Anyone else, looking at the angel, might have missed the spark of joy in his eyes.

“Figured I'd kept you waiting too long already,” said Crowley. He looked at Gabriel. “So, Gabe,” he said. “What happens now?”

Gabriel didn't say a word, just looked from Crowley to Aziraphale and back again in astonishment. Crowley sauntered over to Aziraphale and took his hand. “You okay, angel?” he asked. “This clown didn't try to hurt you, did he?”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, giving his hand a squeeze. “No. In fact, I think Gabriel here is beginning to understand a few things he might not have before.” He turned slightly, positioning himself squarely between the Archangel and the demon. “Isn't that right, Gabriel?”

Gabriel scowled, but there wasn't much force in it.

“I hate to be rude,” said Aziraphale, “but I think perhaps it's time you went home. Crowley and I have some catching up to do.”

Gabriel gave a grudging nod. “I suppose you do,” he said. His frown was more thoughtful than angry. “We'll be in touch.”

“Oh, I'm sure you will,” said Aziraphale.

“Oi,” said Crowley. “There's just one thing, before you go.”

“What?” said Gabriel.

“When you and your goons jumped me,” said Crowley. “Before you dragged me _upwards. _I had a ring. I want it back.”

Gabriel hesitated a moment, then, with a sigh and a muttered “fine,” reached up and made a quick downward motion with his hand. When he opened his hand, a slim gold band sat on his palm. The etching on the band resembled a pattern of feathers.

“I'll take that,” said Aziraphale. He snatched the ring and held it between his fingers, smiling. He looked up at Crowley. “May I?”

Crowley felt a lump in his throat. He didn't trust himself to speak, so he just nodded. Without taking his eyes from Crowley's face, Aziraphale slowly slid the ring back onto the demon's finger, where it belonged.

“There,” said Aziraphale. He reached up with his free hand and pulled off Crowley's sunglasses, smiling fondly at what he saw behind them. “Everything back the way it should be.”

“Angel,” said Crowley. “You–”

Gabriel cleared his throat.

As one, Aziraphale and Crowley turned to look at him.

“Can we help you with something?” Aziraphale asked drily, at the same moment that Crowley said, “Are you still here?”

“I just don't _get it_,” said Gabriel.

“How very sad for you,” said Aziraphale. “Now, if you don't mind?”

“Get out of my flat,” growled Crowley.

Gabriel looked from one to the other one last time, rolled his eyes, sighed, and then, with a snap of his fingers and a crackle of light, he was gone.

“Is he going to leave us alone now?” asked Crowley, glaring at the spot where the Archangel had been.

“I think so,” said Aziraphale. “For now. Crowley, you're back!” And before Crowley knew what was happening, Aziraphale was hugging him so tightly he thought his bones would break.

“Easy there, angel,” said Crowley, hugging him back. “Don't know your own strength.”

“How much do you remember?” Aziraphale asked.

“All of it,” said Crowley. “I remember everything.” He pulled back, just far enough so that he could look Aziraphale in the face. “I'm so sorry, angel.”

Aziraphale gave him a wobbly smile.

“I didn't ask them to do it,” said Crowley.

“Obviously,” said Aziraphale, a little tartly.

“Thank you,” said Crowley. “For, y'know. Looking out for me.”

“How could I do anything else?”

“You called Sara, didn't you? After I left London that first time.”

“Mm,” said Aziraphale. “I called Sanctus, actually. He called Saranel. I thought it was safer if I didn't contact her directly.”

Crowley groaned. “You called _Sanctus?_ Oh, Satan, he's never going to let me hear the end of this.”

“Really, Crowley,” said Aziraphale. “You should be grateful that you have friends watching out for you.”

“Gnh,” said Crowley.

I should call them,” said Aziraphale. “Let them know that you're back to yourself. Anathema, too. And Adam. And–”

“Angel. _ How many people_ did you tell about this?” As if having spent more than a year living as an amnesiac bloody angel wasn't embarrassing enough.

“Well, I couldn't very well just hang around doing nothing! I didn't know what had happened to you. And then Gabriel showed up, and made it _very_ clear that any attempt to get you to remember would only hurt you, and you were so _vulnerable..._”

Crowley chose to ignore that last bit. “I can't believe you called Sanctus,” he complained. “Pretentious git. With his _ironic_ name and his stupid accent–”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale's lip twitched. “Do you really want to ruin this moment with your jealous demon routine?”

“'m not _jealous_.”

“I should hope not,” said Aziraphale. He widened his eyes and gave Crowley a little pout. “You know perfectly well that you're my favourite demon.”

Crowley had never been able to resist that little pout. He leaned in closer, gaze fixed on Aziraphale's lips.

A sudden shadow fell over his thoughts, and he pulled back. “Aziraphale?”

“Yes, dearest?” Was that a note of impatience in the angel's voice?

“Would you ... I mean ... do you ... would you rather ... would you have preferred it if I could have found another way?”

Aziraphale's brow furrowed. “Another way to what?”

“To, to get my memories back. Without, uh, having to...” he swallowed. “Fall again.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “You mean, would I rather you had found a way to remain an angel.”

“Uh,” said Crowley. “Yeah.”

Aziraphale's face was very still for a moment. Then he hit Crowley in the arm, hard. “Of course not!”

“Ow,” said Crowley, rubbing the spot where he'd been hit. “_Really_ don't know your own strength there, angel.”

“After everything that's happened, how could you think–”

“Angel.”

“I mean, okay, yes, there was a time when I would have said that being on the same side would have made things easier, but that was a long time ago, and I was... we actually–”

“Angel.”

“And it's not that I didn't love you when you were an angel, but–”

“Angel.”

“Oh dear, I suppose I _can _see why you might think... but dearest, you must know that I–”

“_Angel.”_

Blue-grey eyes locked onto his. “What?”

“I hear you,” said Crowley. “I just ... wondered.”

Aziraphale reached up and cupped Crowley's cheek in his hand. “You've said before that you didn't ask to be a demon. Is this, right now, who you want to be?”

Crowley thought about it. Gabriel hadn't given him a choice. If he'd had the choice, and if the cost of ascending weren't so terrible, what would he have chosen? He didn't have to think very long.

“This is exactly who I want to be,” he said.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “I'm glad to hear it. Now,” he said. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to kiss me?”

He didn't have to think very long about that choice, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone!
> 
> Last few notes!
> 
> With Crowley vanished, and Gabriel standing right there, what did Aziraphale do? He put on the kettle and made some tea. Obviously.
> 
> When Aziraphale started rattling off the names of everyone he called for help, you should definitely assume that before Crowley interrupted him, he was just about to name YOUR favourite unlikely supporting character, OC and/or crossover character. Because that's fun.
> 
> Speaking of OCs, Is it self-indulgent to name-drop an OC who exists only in my head? Probably, but who cares! I wanted to tie off the loose ends from chapter 2 and make it clear what was going on there, and it just made sense that Sara's demonic counterpart would have been involved. For the purposes of this story, all you need to know about Sanctus is this: 1. He likes books, and has been known to geek out over old books with Aziraphale, which annoys Crowley to no end. 2. Crowley is dead wrong about his accent being stupid. It's Labradorian, and it's awesome. 3. Crowley is, however, right about his name. Sanctus is a ridiculous name for a demon.


End file.
